


Thérèse de la Ferme

by seraphflight



Category: French History RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/M, French Characters, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 11:45:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16325600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphflight/pseuds/seraphflight
Summary: When Thérèse nurses an injured monk, she could not have foreseen the terrifying ramifications of her simple act of kindness. Caught between religious fanatics, murderers and a scheme to oust Thérèse from her valuable farm, plus the need to protect her only son, how will Thérèse survive?





	Thérèse de la Ferme

**Author's Note:**

> Note: While this story is complete, it is really a surviving fragment of a large group RPG which was set in a fictional French village during mediaeval times. This RPG featured multiple original characters and multiple plot-lines, all unfolding simultaneously. I have taken some mild liberties with the editing so that this surviving section makes sense. This story itself was written between late 2004 and early 2005.

Introduction

You emerge from a narrow, twisting lane lined with varieties of fruit trees around whose sturdy trunks can be seen many hens, geese and ducks, several portly pigs and a small herd of sheep and goats. There is a pond nearby, and a well which draws crystal-clear spring water. A hay-filled barn stands to one side of a paddock where two shire horses graze contentedly.

Your eyes are drawn to the open kitchen door of the friendly farmhouse, where you know a warm welcome awaits. Lavender is growing either side of the door to bring in good luck (and to repel fleas), and there is a carefully tended vegetable and herb garden fenced off from any wandering livestock on the sunniest side of the stone single-storey home.

As you approach the open door, you can smell fresh baked bread and the subtle but distinctive fragrance of bacon being cured by hanging inside the chimney where the smoke from the wood fire will preserve the meat for winter. This is a wealthy place, where food is plentiful most years; and the hunting in the nearby forest is good. Where would the village be without its farm?

As you step through the doorway, you hear the familiar sound of the spinning wheel whirling industriously - and you smile, recognising that Thérèse, the lady of the house must be home.....

 

Post #1

Thérèse had returned to the farm, hitching a ride on the back of one of Guillem’s men’s horses. No matter what had happened already, and no matter what might happen yet, she had a farm to run; the livestock had their routine and nothing on this earth could interfere with that. She had been offered temporary lodgings at the Hall but she refused, knowing that once that maniac Ives was captured she’d be as safe on the farm as anywhere else.

Her hand was pulsing with agony, but surely this was nothing compared to the horrors Marie and Jean were being subjected to. Were they even still alive? Had Thérèse raised the alarm in time? There was nothing she could do now to alter the flow of events. It was not her place to interfere, though the beaten appearance of the village whore mistress puzzled her. What was Vivienne doing amongst Guillem’s men? What had befallen her, that her own condition be so sorry? Thérèse knew better than to question anyone regarding this; she had absolutely no power to sway events.

When Vivienne was treated as bait to catch the beast Ives, and the two of them were then dragged unconscious from the barn, Thérèse was shocked and a little distressed at the woman’s treatment. Thérèse’s late husband, Pierre, had spent many a coin in the whorehouse but Thérèse did not begrudge him this; it was his right as a man and, besides, it kept him from pestering her too often, for goodness knows Pierre had been an inept lover. And Thérèse held no grudge against the village whores; though the place seemed swarming with them. It saddened her to see Vivienne dragged so callously from the barn, even though Thérèse knew nothing of the whore’s involvement in this vile business.

The semi-conscious forms of Marie and Jean were carried from the barn by several of Guillem’s men. None of them had even thought to cover their broken and bleeding naked bodies. Thérèse rushed into the barn and grabbed two horse blankets, ignoring the shooting pain in her hand, and swiftly and determinedly shielded the white-faced, sobbing victims from the ugly hunger in the eyes of Guillem’s men.

“Carry them to the farm house,” Thérèse firmly insisted, finding her voice at last. She ran ahead of them, opening the front door and ensuring that her furious wolfhounds wouldn’t attack anyone. These dogs were more use than most men when it came to security. It wasn’t the dogs’ fault that they had treated Ives as a friend, used to seeing him around the farm. She was only dimly aware of footsteps following her into the warm and smoky interior of her clean and comfortable home.

“Place Marie over there,” said Thérèse, indicating towards her own bed. She was already drawing a curtain around the welcoming bed to shield the quietly sobbing girl. Thérèse tried to smile reassuringly, but her chin trembled when she looked more clearly upon the vicious damage done to Marie’s delicate body. And who could tell how much damage had been done to the dancing girl’s mind? Only the passage of time would answer that dilemma.

“Let me make up a bed for Jean,” said Thérèse, turning from the bedside and opening a sturdy wooden cupboard. She clumsily pulled out blankets and handed them to one of Guillem’s men, who hovered nearby unsure of how to make himself useful. “Use the rugs beside the hearth to make up a bed. You’ll have to help me because of my hand; it’s injuries make any movement in my hand too painful.”

Once the two ashen-faced, trembling victims of Ives incomprehensible brutality had been lain down and wrapped up well, Thérèse began encouraging Guillem’s men to leave. She didn’t feel comfortable with them shuffling around her home, looking at her things. How was she going to defend this place now, all by herself?

Shouts from outside encouraged the men to leave anyway, thank goodness. From the sounds of things, Guillem was ordering his men to saddle up in preparation to return to his hall. Would anyone think to send the herbalist here to help Marie and Jean? Thérèse didn’t have time to enquire, as suddenly the riders were moving off, Vivienne’s unconscious body thrown over one horse’s back, Ives’ over another. Thérèse almost felt sorry for the huge blond man; how much pain must he have been in, within himself, for him to have become such an appalling wretch? He was still somebody’s son, somebody’s lover, for all that he had done. Who could find love for a creature such as him?

Thérèse returned indoors and stoked the fire, bringing the huge cauldron of already-warm water closer to the flames. Awkwardly, she cut some long, thin strips of cloth ready for bandages. Before she could do much for Marie and Jean, she would have to attend her own hand. She slipped a stick between her teeth and bit down hard. Taking a deep breath, and with her last reserves of courage, she straightened her broken finger, stifling the cry of pain which sprang to her parched lips. Then she used one of the bandages to bind the broken finger against its neighbour, knowing this was the best way to treat such injuries. Her smashed fingernails had already stopped bleeding, fortunately, but there was nothing she could do about the pain.

Thérèse carried a bowl of hot water and some clean cloths to Marie’s bedside. As gently as she was able, she carefully cleaned the girl’s wounds and gave her a goblet of ale to restore her just a little. The poor girl looked terrified; her eyes were haunted. Her hands shook pitifully as she lifted the goblet to her bleeding lips, spilling some of the ale. Marie began to apologise but Thérèse softly brushed aside her words.

“You are safe now,” Thérèse reassuringly murmured. “Nothing more will harm you this night. My dogs will guard us all well.” But what of tomorrow, and tomorrow, thought Thérèse?

Then Thérèse rose from Marie’s bedside, and said, “Try and get a little rest, if you can.” Then she walked to Jean’s side, where he lay nestled amongst thick woollen blankets by the warm hearthside. She raised his head a little with her good hand and encouraged him to sip a little ale, and then, as she had done for the girl, she prepared fresh hot water and clean cloths and gently began to clean his wounds. He flinched at her touch, instinctively pulling away from another invasion of his privacy, but Thérèse calmed him with gentle words, as she might do for a frightened child or injured animal, and she began softly singing some ancient lullaby which her own mother had long-ago sung to her.

He was a beautiful boy, thought Thérèse as she delicately mopped the drying blood from his lips. One such as he would raise a high price in the slave markets, but he need not fear that fate from her. She would never do such a thing; she abhorred all such trade. It was a cruel fact, though, that a beautiful and clean-limbed boy could attract such lecherous greed. She idly wondered what it might be like to lie with such a one. Pierre had been clumsy at best, and he had not left her the heir she needed to protect this farm from grasping hands. The young monk was half-dozing under her light touch, instinctively knowing he could trust her. If Thérèse could quickly implant a child in her womb now, no-one would question it if she said it was Pierre’s. Who would know? Would this sweet monk even know? She could lift her skirts and straggle him now, and perhaps he would think it just a dream. After the abuse he’d endured, it was almost to be expected.

With such tender delicacy, Thérèse cleaned that most intimate of injuries, gently wiping away surface evidence of his violation. Jean stirred slightly, his closed eyelids fluttering like the wings of newly-fledged butterflies, the red light from the fire warming his painfully pale face. And in that moment, Thérèse knew that she would sooner her womb remain empty of child all her remaining life than harm one hair of Jean’s head. She would never betray his trust in her at this bitter-sweet, vulnerable moment; never.

 

Post #1A: written by Tristan LaRoche

The lady's voice was rich and tender. Her delicate fingers were pouring rose petals into steaming water. 

When Jean tried to open his mouth the taste of blood chased memory away and reality was re-established in all its squalor. The reassuring smell of fresh baked bread lingered in the still air of the room.

"Who are you?"

Jean finally whispered, "I am the punishment of god, little one. And I am here to cleanse your filthy soul." He moaned softly, biting his lips in shame, feeling his heart palpitating wildly and thus sending violent rushes of blood down to his groin. Jean closed his eyes, his chin met the chest skin as his mind sought refuge in the lady.

“Without night there is no day.”

 

Post #2

Thérèse had heard the village gossip. He had returned; after five years, the ascetic monk had returned. She had carefully maintained an indifferent expression when Vivienne had told her the news. Thérèse was no friend of gossip; she would neither pay heed to loose talk nor pass it on to other eager ears. Vivienne had looked at her strangely, as if she had expected a different reaction. Or was Vivienne merely noting Thérèse’s hungry pallor and increasing thinness? Yet now, in the privacy of her almost-empty kitchen, she leant against the sturdy wooden table which stood in the centre of the room, she could let her guard down.

Outside, little Michel was busily cleaning out the hen house. She turned to watch him through the open doorway, wondering what the future might hold for him. The priest, a man Thérèse had always found repellent, had approached her only recently and proposed that she place her son in the Cistercian Order. She had adamantly refused, saying he was far too young to leave her side. Michel was little over four years old, for goodness sake. The priest had protested, pointing out that the boy would be better fed and well educated there. Thérèse had seen the sly expression of badly concealed lechery fleetingly distort the man’s otherwise pious expression, and this had been enough to solidify her refusal. 

The question of what she was going to feed her innocent and trusting son, though, was pressing on her thoughts. The carefully-laid snares had caught nothing for four days. Thin vegetable soup and bread was not enough to feed a growing boy. She dared not slaughter another pig for a while, as who could tell what hardships deep winter might bring? The burning pain in her own stomach would just have to remain unquenched – again. She felt weak with prolonged hunger, having already not eaten for three days just to feed her son. How much longer could she maintain this without becoming ill?

She watched Michel talking to one of the wolfhounds. He was unusually gifted with all animals, it seemed. How easy running the farm had seemed when Pierre was alive! Even though it had been Thérèse’s practicality and business mind which had done most of the work, without the threat of a man’s presence around the place everything had fallen to pieces. What kind of a life would poor little Michel inherit? He was such a delicate and beautiful child that Thérèse had kept him carefully hidden from the greedy eyes of all travelling merchants. What would his future hold for him, if not poverty and toil? 

Thérèse opened the trapdoor in the floor and descended the wooden steps into the dark cellar. There was barely enough light cast by the tiny candle stub carried in her hand to see anything, but familiarity guided her nimble feet to the far wall. She carefully pressed against the wall, and the secret door slid open to reveal a tiny room all in darkness. The air inside was fragranced with old incense, and seemed to be strangely heavy as if the air was thicker within this silent, hidden chapel. She was being rash, coming here while her son was still awake. He knew nothing of this room; a child’s trusting tongue cannot be expected to guard secrets such as this.

Thérèse opened up a small, humble wooden wall cupboard. Inside, dressed in a delicate gown sewn by Thérèse herself, was a black Madonna.

Thérèse genuflected then knelt in prayer, hoping for answers – even for one answer – to her situation. How could she best help her son? The farm needed another pair of hands but how could she afford to pay anyone a fair wage? How were they to eat this coming winter? And more importantly, far more importantly, what should she do about the return of the monk? Jean did not know he was a father. Should she tell him? Did she even have the right to tell him? Perhaps she should not approach him at all… If Jean saw Michel would he recognise himself in the child? That monks and nuns occasionally had children was not unknown in these times, but what of the consequences for the boy, or for herself, if the identity of Michel’s true father became common knowledge? A certain Lord might have something to say about it, if nothing else….

 

Post #3

This stranger greatly underestimates the strength of wolfhounds, thought Thérèse. These huge creatures had been renowned for their loyalty and ferocity for centuries, right back to the distant days of the early Celts. They could haul a person from a horse, even a warhorse, in seconds. Their powerful jaws could crush bone. And Thérèse’s own hounds had been bred by herself; she knew their mighty pedigree. However, Thérèse made no verbal response to her visitor’s assumptions, and instead she cocked her head to one side, rapidly thinking about all that had been said so far. The bargain sounded too good to be true, which meant that it probably was. At least, this is how things had always been in her experience.

“I am known locally as Thérèse de la Ferme,” she smiled politely, slightly amused by the absurd simplicity of the name. “My late husband’s name was Bertillion. Pierre Bertillion. His is not a local name; his family came from the north. My family have owned this land for more centuries than I care to name, and my son will inherit it in its entirety.” She had mentioned this latter detail deliberately; she was not about to hand over her land to anyone, not ever. She omitted to reveal her maternal family name, and for good reason. Many of her kin had been slaughtered in the rising tides of religious fanaticism which periodically threatened to swamp all Europe.

So this stranger had observed the pointed weight of the knife in her apron pocket? Thérèse smiled faintly at this, noticing how the stranger openly carried weaponry. How bizarre it was for a woman to bear a sword! It was most unladylike. Such behaviour could easily get a person burnt at the stake, or at least imprisoned and tortured by the Church.

Thérèse looked on in growing amazement as the weed-gowned lane filled with cattle. She stared at the unfamiliar faces of the people as they were quickly introduced to her. The stranger, Lady Alinore, continued to speak, but Thérèse was more concerned about this sudden invasion of her world.

Thérèse shook herself out of her confusion. She was the lady of the farm; she must offer hospitality. She looked up at this Lady Alinore, whom she had never even seen before, and said, “Come take some refreshment with me. I can offer little in the way of luxury, but what I have I will gladly share. Come inside, won’t you? There is ale enough for all your people. We can discuss this some more. Michel, serve our guests with ale….”

Thérèse watched as Alinore dismounted from her horse and walked confidently towards the open farm door. Inside, the house was spotlessly clean, though the hearth only held warm embers. Fresh rushes and herbs had been strewn over the stone floor. The sturdy kitchen table had been thoroughly scrubbed, and the chairs which surrounded it each sported a plump cushion. The room smelt of freshly baked bread and drying herbs, and faintly of the fish and pork being cured on hooks in the chimney. Nearby stood a spinning wheel and a large embroidery frame which displayed a half-completed commission. Thérèse’s weaving and embroidery was renowned for their finesse, though her supply of fleece had petered out recently. A tall wooden settle beside the fire was softened by more cushions, and in one corner could be seen Michel’s bed, a humble affair but warm and dry. Through an open interior door was Thérèse’s own bedroom, and this too was perfectly clean if bereft of all luxury. She had had to sell many of her old things to keep food on the table.

Thérèse knew that Lady Alinore’s shrewd eyes took all this in with one sweep. Was this strange woman assessing the place with a view to robbing Thérèse of her land? Thérèse did not fear this, as she felt totally confident that the Lord Guillem would never permit such an action. Or was Alinore contemptuous of the poverty here?

Thérèse quickly oversaw Michel’s efforts to supply the people outside with flagons of home-brewed ale. This, too, was renowned for its potency and light taste. Thérèse indicated that Alinore take a seat at the table. Placing a flagon of ale before her unexpected and rather startling guest, Thérèse said, “There is no aspect of farming with which I am not completely familiar. My family have been farmers here for centuries, as I said. But I am a widow and alone here; Pierre was murdered by Red Hawk some five years ago. I can only do so much by myself. Men do not take kindly to orders from a woman, even from the woman who pays them fairly – and so the situation has arrived at the condition which you see.”

Thérèse sat down at the table, diagonally from Alinore. She quietly continued, “This land is fertile. It could easily flourish again. The fruit trees yield well, and I have a small herd of goats which yields plenty of soft fibre for weaving high quality cloth. The well gives clean water even in the height of summer. Until recent years, this was a wealthy place.”

Thérèse was too polite to ask how it was that a lady of Alinore’s apparent standing could not afford to purchase her own land. Thérèse took a sip of the ale. She didn’t wish to drink much, as having not eaten for four and a half days had made her feel weak. She asked, “How is it, then, that you approach me? What brings you and your people to this part of France?” What Thérèse meant, of course, was how did Alinore come to be displaced from her own lands and would she bring a whole heap of trouble to Thérèse’s farm door!

Michel returned to his mother’s side and curled his thin arms around her shoulders, his golden curls nestling into Thérèse’s smooth raven tresses. His watchful blue eyes betrayed a surprising intelligence for one so young. How different he looked from his dark-eyed mother.

 

Post #4

Thérèse paused, deep in thought. Her eyes flicked towards the carefully-kept ledgers which stood upright on a stout bookshelf. The farm accounts which filled those pages would reveal the full story of wealthy harvests and good animal husbandry. Thérèse had spoken truthfully when she had described this place as having been wealthy up until Pierre’s death. Inked lists showing taxes paid in full to the lord of the land, plus his bold and decisive signature, proved beyond any doubt that Thérèse’s spoke no veiled lie concerning the potential of this land. The farm’s slow decline was also shown in those neatly inscribed leaves, a sadder tale whose proof required only an observant eye.

Thérèse rose to her feet, but she did not reach for the ledgers. She did not trust this strange woman; how could she, when she knew nothing of her. For who was fool enough to trust the word of a stranger in these treacherous times? While the ledgers would have provided any proof of potential investment, they may also provide this Lady Alinore with good reason to kill Thérèse and Michel in order to take the land for themselves; though Thérèse felt as confident as she could be that the Lord de Guisors would avenge her.

Thérèse reached for two pewter plates and set these on the table, one before her guest. Then she reached for the knife in her pocket and cut a random slice of cheese and a chunk of bread, and placed these on the platter before Lady Alinore. As Thérèse re-filled the lady’s ale she smiled softly and said, “I would not dream of eating before a guest had eaten first.” She knew that Alinore would understand Thérèse’s real meaning; her guest would prove the food uncontaminated by eating it first. Thérèse meant no offence by this action; she was simply seeking to protect her son.

She sat down again and drew the boy close to her side, affectionately pressing a loving kiss to his downy cheek. The boy was painfully thin, yet this seemed only to add to his ethereal beauty. He watched the Lady Alinore carefully, his huge blue eyes filled with curiosity and politely contained hunger. Thérèse said, “This is my son, Michel; he is the world to me. If anyone tried to take him from me or harm him in any way, I will see them hang for it.”

“Why would someone take me away, mère?” asked the innocent child.

“Because you are very beautiful,” Thérèse gently replied, “and the world is filled with greed.” The boy smiled and snuggled into this mother’s protective arms, watching as Lady Alinore ate the bread and cheese.

Thérèse smiled again and said, “Merci, Madamme d’Alinore”; then cut more of the cheese, handing this to Michel. He took it in both small, dimpled hands as if it was something quite precious and, despite his obvious hunger, he ate it his polite and delicate bites. But the bread he was given to eat was Thérèse’s own; she knew too well how badly harvested grain could harbour a fungus which causes convulsions and hallucinations, and she would not risk exposing her child to this. Besides, bread was one of the few things which she was not short of. Thérèse placed one of her own fruit loaves on the table, and handed her guest the plate and a sharp knife – a gesture which returned the poison-test courtesy which Thérèse herself had employed.

“This offer you bring to me,” said Thérèse slowly, “it would need to be drawn up on paper and signed by us both in front of four witnesses, including the Lord de Guisors himself. Understand, please, that I must protect my son’s in heritance. Besides, such potentially complex agreements needs must be properly arranged, no?”

Just then, there was a clattering of horses in the cobbled courtyard, followed by the sounds of loud male voice firmly asking, “What goes on here? Pierre? Thérèse? Où est chacun? Qui sont ces personnes?”

Thérèse couldn’t believe her own ears. She would know that voice anywhere! She sprang to her feet, a broad smile brightening her worried face but already a strong-shouldered figure filled the open farmhouse doorway. He was a tall, powerfully-built man with badly-cut black hair and warm dark eyes. He wore a thick leather jerkin and battered leather riding leggings over dirty grey cloth. At his side was a massive sword, and daggers could be seen at his waist and muscular arms.

“Jacques!” cried Thérèse joyfully. “Jacques, you have come home from the crusades!”

“Where is my brother?” asked Jacques, grinning boldly.

The smile faded from Thérèse. She lowered her head, then slipped an arm around Michel and quietly replied, “Pierre was murdered some five years ago; murdered by Red Hawk. Did you not get my letter? No, I suppose it would have been a poor hope….” She paused and added, “This is your nephew, Michel. And this is Lady Alinore, who has come to me with an investment offer regarding the farm.”

A deep scowl lined Jacques broad forehead. “Pierre is dead? I had no news of this….” He frowned, his mood darkening; the joyful homecoming he’d been anticipating for months was now spoiled. Jacques walked further into the farmhouse, his eyes taking in the situation. “A nephew, hey?” Jacques smile was warm as he appraised the shy, pale child.

Another two men entered the farmhouse behind Jacques. One was obviously a close relation of Jacques, sharing the same dark complexion and sturdy build, though he was younger and not as tall. Thérèse smiled again and exclaimed, “Henri! You’re here too! Oh, thank goodness both you and Jacques are both safe and well! But you, sir, I do not know your face…”  
The third man bowed slightly to the two ladies, “Permit me to introduce myself. Je suis Emile Caro.”

“Emile is our friend and companion these past two years,” explained Jacques. “Our home is his home also. Pierre? I cannot believe this…. His murderer, this Red Hawk, he is hung for his crime?”

“No,” replied Thérèse. “Red Hawk walks free, but I know not where.”

“I will have justice for my brother’s death!” growled Henri sternly.

“All in good time,” Jacques quietly replied. “All in good time. Investment in the farm, you say? There is no need of any such thing. We have money enough for all that’s needed to be put right here. We’re home to stay.”

 

Post #5

While Jacques and Thérèse had gone to the village to raise the alarm, Henri and Emile combed the surrounding forest for tracks. Henri was an expert tracker; Emile’s forte lay in a somewhat different line of work, but nonetheless his eyes and senses were keen. They soon found the spot where large footprints met Michel’s small barefooted prints. The boy had been picking berries. His round wicker basket still lay on the floor. There was no sign of any struggle, and he had obviously been abducted on foot.

The two men followed the track easily as it led on a twisting route back towards the village. Here, the cobbles perfectly hid any further tracks – but then Henri wondered why one cottage was still shuttered up, when so much village life bustled all around it. They looked at each other silently, aware of curious stares following their route. News of their return from the crusades had yet to filter through the local gossip-trail. Of course, their presence in the village swiftly altered that.

Henri knocked firmly but politely on the door. A cold-faced red-haired wench opened the door. Emile’s sharp eyes immediately saw the little knife she was toying with in one hand – Michel’s knife.

Emile snatched it from her, grabbing her arm and wrenching her from the doorway, hurling her to the rough and filthy ground. Without hesitation, he icily snapped, “Where is Michel?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” shouted Vivienne defensively, using her hands to push herself into a sitting position on the muddy cobbles.

Henri coldly replied, “Do yourself a favour and tell the truth. This is Michel’s knife.” Henri kicked the door wide and marched inside, looking around and calling out the child’s name. No-one else was inside, though visible signs of a recent meal proved that more than one diner had been present. To one side of Vivienne’s home, evidence of the presence of a horse, now absent, was quickly found.

Emile gazed sternly at the woman, who was now rising to her feet. A vicious kick to her stomach halted that attempt. Vivienne groaned, wrapped her arms around herself and gasped for breath, feeling again the pain of her recent loss from her womb. “I’ll ask you nicely one more time,” said Emile. “Where is Michel?”

“I’ll never tell you! Never!” gasped Vivienne, her eyes wild with fury and fear.

A strange, cruel smile curled at the corners of Emile’s dry lips. “You will. You will tell me absolutely everything. Under my hands, you will beg to talk for me.”

“Who are you?” growled Vivienne contemptuously. She knew Henri by site of course, but this other man was a complete stranger. 

“My name is Monsieur Caro.”

Henri grinned and added on Emile’s behalf, “…Also known as a master of pain.”

Vivienne was forcibly marched back to the farm, her wrists bound with rough hemp. Little was said during the journey, but their arrival certainly caused nervous interest amongst the people Lady Alinore had brought with her.

Thérèse and Jacques arrived back at the farm at almost the same time. Thérèse was frantic with worry, wringing her hands nervously, her huge dark eyes looking haunted. “What is Vivienne doing here?” she asked, completely puzzled. She had no argument with the village whore mistress.

Henri’s brief explanation was greeted with a chorus of gasps from Alinore’s listening people, who had crowded closely around.

Thérèse walked slowly and steadily towards Vivienne, who raised her gaze to meet Thérèse’s. “Where is my son? Tell me.”

Vivienne silently shook her head. What was she to do? If she betrayed Ives he would kill her. If she did not betray him, these people would kill her anyway. The sharp sting of Thérèse’s hard slap made Vivienne gasp aloud. Blood instantly welled at her parched lips, tears springing to her scared eyes.

“Permit me,” said Emile, stepping forward. “I’ll use the barn. She’ll talk.” Then he dragged the struggling woman through the watching crowd and into the barn, out of sight. The whispering audience did not have to wait long for the first of Vivienne’s screams.

 

Post #6

Emile had travelled many miles, deftly following the faint signs of Ives’ trail through the heavily forested land. Now he knelt beside last night’s camp fire, his fingers sifting through the ashes to test for warmth and so judge how long since this site had been abandoned.

Emile rose and began to study the ground. He saw where the child had slept, where Ives had paced restlessly, where Ives horse had been tethered. Emile felt confident that Ives was not far in front of him now.

Emile had travelled alone. Jacques and Henri had tried to accompany him but he had refused their aid. Emile knew he could move more quickly this way and, besides, he enjoyed the hunt. Thérèse had been inconsolable; she had reluctantly told them something of the night when, some five years ago, Ives had brutalised the young monk and the village girl. Emile had encountered such man-beasts as this Ives before. He relished the prospect of delivering retribution. It was something at which he excelled.

Mounting his brown stallion, Emile methodically followed the trail further through the dense forestry. Surely Ives must be oblivious to his tracker, for the tracks he left were easily detected. The sun began to slowly climb through the azure skies, breaking through the cool shadows cast by majestic trees in long beams of dusty light. Every branch seemed to house some singing feathered throat. Emile found the stream where Ives had stopped to drink. A child’s footprints were pressed into the muddy banks.

As midday grew closer, the faint sound of chanting caught Emile’s attention. He silently dismounted form his horse, catching its reigns onto a low branch then proceeded on foot towards the sunny clearing, a natural grove encircled by ancient oaks. There, in the very centre, knelt a young monk deep in prayer. He wore an expression of intense rapture, his face upturned towards the sun, a gentle smile curling over his sensual lips which moved with the words he was devotedly repeating. His blond hair glinted silver in the sunlight, and Emile could not help but notice how it was the exact same shade as Michel’s own hair. He listened more closely to the monk’s words, drawn in by the unpretentious, simple beauty of the scene.

The monk suddenly stopped his devotions and turned his face towards Emile. The serenity in the man’s eyes caused Emile to marvel. Then Emile offered a slight bow of respect, indicating that he intended no threat, and added a small smile before he backed away and returned to his waiting stallion.

By mid-afternoon, Emile knew he was now very close on Ives heels. He proceeded much more cautiously, not wishing to reveal his presence. Tracking Ives, or Red Hawk as he was also known, was now more a matter of remaining close enough to follow yet far away enough not to be discovered. Emile watched as Ives walked beside his horse, the child riding in the saddle. The child seemed uninjured but very tired, his head nodding sleepily as he struggled to stay upright. Ives walked comfortably and calmly, leading the animal onwards through the massive forest, saying nothing to the boy. Ives seemed relaxed, and clearly had no idea he was being so closely observed.

Emile bided his time, evaluating the situation. Ives was a powerfully-built warrior; his massive shoulders and arms hinting at the brute strength lying dormant within his large frame. Ives was taller, heavier and more muscular than Emile; in any straight fight, Ives would have a definite advantage. But it was not Emile’s intention to engage his prey in a sword fight.

From his pocket, Emile withdrew a long, thin plaited cord. On one end of this was a heavy lump of granite. He moved in front of Ives, waiting until the man was almost level with him, and then Emile swung the weighted cord in circles to gather velocity then smashed the granite end right between Ives’ eyes.

Yves slumped to his knees instantly, his breath knocked from him, his mind blinded by the sudden pain. A second blow to the nape of his neck sent him tumbling into unconsciousness.

Emile smiled vaguely, almost disappointed that it had been so easy. From his horse’s saddle bag he produced a length of thick twine and quickly bound Ives’ wrists and ankles with unbreakable knots, secured him to a stout tree, and then gagged him. Ives would be going nowhere, no matter how he might later struggle.

The child was terrified; his large blue eyes were filled with fearful tears. Emile smiled gently and said, “Don’t be afraid, little one. Michel, is it not? You have nothing to fear from me. Your mother Thérèse has sent me to bring you home to the farm. Your uncles Henri and Jacques are waiting for you there. I am friend of theirs; my name is Monsieur Caro, though you may call me Emile.”

The boy had never met his uncles, yet he remembered hearing their names from his mother. The thought of his mother made him realise just how much he had been missing her, and the poor child burst into heartbreaking sobs, his cherubic face crumpling with stress. Emile took the poor mite into his arms and tried to sooth him as best as he was able, pleased at least that the child seemed unhurt physically, even if he was filthy and his hair matted with knots and twigs. The sooner Emile returned the boy to his mother’s waiting arms, the better.

Emile sat the boy back in Ives’ saddle and led the horse towards his own, then led both horses a little way from the camp site. He tied both horses to a tree and told Michel to wait for him, leaving him with some cheese and water. The child was clearly famished, and began eating as if he’d not eaten at all for days.

Emile returned to Ives’ side. The massive man was already beginning to stir. Emile would have liked to have lingered over his captive but he wanted to begin the homewards journey as soon as possible for Michel’s sake. Ives opened his eyes, an expression of wild fury distorting his features. The brute soon realised he was tied and immobile, unable to move. A guttural snarl broke from behind the gag.

Emile smiled gently as he removed Ives’ trousers. He sat straggled Ives’ legs so as to limit any movement. “Bonjour, Monsieur; we meet again. If I remember rightly, last time we crossed paths I did advise you to keep out of my affairs. Ah, no, don’t struggle – I do not intend to kill you. That would be a terrible waste of a fine physique, non?”

Emile chuckled softly, then added, “However, mon ami, you cannot abduct the nephew of my comrades, of my brothers-in-blood, and expect to remain unpunished.” Emile’s left hand now held the soft sack of delicate flesh behind the semi-erect organ. His right held a small, very sharp dagger. “I intend to make sure of that.”


End file.
